


with no rolling

by preromantics



Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-12
Updated: 2010-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-08 21:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/79839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preromantics/pseuds/preromantics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day of surfing. <i>Brendon doesn't mean for it to happen, really.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	with no rolling

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ: 9/2/09

Brendon doesn’t mean for it to happen, really.

The weather is not the best for surfing -- it’s cloudy and gray and the waves are almost too rough and crashing to attempt to stand on. Neither him or Spencer are pros by far, although Brendon would like to think he’s getting progressively better the more they hit the waves.

He wakes up Spencer in the morning anyway as they planned, lets Spencer make waffles while he showers and then eats them while Spencer gets ready, sparing only small glances out the windows of Brendon’s house to the rolling gray clouds outside.

When they get to the beach, there are a few other guys out on the waves. Brendon recognizes one guy from the distance, Eric or Erin or Edwin or something with an ‘E’. They’d met on the waves two months back, when Brendon was still a little wobbly and he’d given Brendon a sand-callused rough hand job in the public showers and Brendon had returned the favor, nose pressed into the back of the guys head, breathing in bleach-dye and Pacific-ocean-salt with every breath and motion of his hand.

He walks with Spencer down the beach, far enough until Spencer finally deems the spot he stops at the perfect one and Brendon just goes along with it, even though he knows the current and direction of the waves will bring them down way past where the car is parked by the time they catch any true surf.

Spencer’s good at getting the good waves, always wears a short-sleeved rash guard and trunks instead of a wet suit like Brendon wears -- (he feels uncomfortable in it but that’s besides the point) -- and his biceps flex in the gray-gold light every time he pulls himself on the board in a way that Brendon tries not to watch. Or, at least, he tries to not think about the small twist in his gut as his line of sight jumps from Spencer’s flexing arms to the dip of his neck to the spark in his eyes every time Spencer manages to stay up and actually ride one of the waves, staying neatly on the crest and going straight where Brendon always curves over and follows the motion of the wave sideway in a much less successful ratio of staying on the board versus being in the water.

The weather really isn’t good for surfing, though. Brendon gets tumbled into waves just paddling out and gets thrown off more than even tries to stand up and Spencer isn’t much better.

“I’m glad Shane isn’t out here to film us,” Spencer laughs, shouting around the spray of the ocean as Brendon paddles closer, straddling his board and letting the waves bob him up and down when he gets close enough to Spencer.

“Well,” Brendon says, also loud, “at least he’d have some footage of you sucking ass out here finally. It’s all of me getting pummeled and you looking like a pro.”

Spencer laughs, head tilted back and the minimal sun shining through breaks in the overcast sky seems to catch right on the droplets of water lining his throat, impossibly bright and Brendon is close enough on his board that he could lean forward and lick them off, maybe -- let the salt sink into his tongue and let Spencer kiss it right back out and --

“Earth to Brendon,” Spencer says, punching Brendon’s shoulder in a way that rocks Brendon backward and makes him clench his thighs around the board, reaching out to steady himself from falling with a hand on Spencer’s shoulder, dragging himself closer until his knee touches Spencer’s own, both straddling their boards and just staring back at the shore.

“We should head out tomorrow,” Spencer says, turning back. “It’s going to be nicer. Three foot, I think, and less head-on wind.”

Brendon never pays attention to the weather. At least not closely. Spencer does, and Shane when he’s out to film or just to hang. They all end up at the beach more often than not when the studio isn’t the best option, in some permuation of the three of them with extras and hangers-on added in the mix for a little variety.

Brendon can’t say his life is ideal right now -- it’s a little shaky like the ocean, the footing a little unsure like he’s riding waves with his feet in the sand and sometimes the water lifts him up so he can’t reach the ground until it decides to meet back up with him again all of the sudden.

The ocean makes him giddy, though, makes him want to face everything head on. It may be a shitty metaphor for his life that he’s tried once-twice-a-hundred times to write a song around, but it’s a pretty steady vice all the same.

Spencer has a hand on his thigh, just pressing to keep him -- both of them -- steady around the waves. The wind is picking up, whipping Spencer’s hair back across his face in wet strands and Brendon laughs at him, leaning forward to brush the strands away one by one in thick sand-gritty pieces.

He keeps his hand along the side of Spencer’s jaw. His skin is soft, smooth from shaving just hours ago and it feels warm in contrast to the wind and the spray coming off the waves.

Spencer is looking past Brendon, following the line of the shore with his eyes but he’s grinning despite the mood of the sea-surf-sky around them.

“Okay,” Brendon says, voice too-low and normal and probably getting swept up around him before it can catch Spencer’s ears, but it doesn’t matter because Brendon makes up his mind anyway, crouching forward on his board and tilting Spencer’s head closer.

He lets the tail end of a wave propel him forward, slouching forward and catching Spencer’s lips salty-dry and then pressing forward when Spencer tilts back, inviting.

The back of Spencer’s head is etched with sand when Brendon slides his hand around and slides in closer, tongue dragging along the edge of Spencer’s lips and then down his jaw when he’s bumped forward and unsteady on his board.

Spencer spreads a hand against the space between Brendon’s shoulder blades to steady him (always there to steady him, in ways beyond just simple, new and exciting contact,) but Brendon slips down when a wave crests just right under him, sliding off his board with a cut-off laugh and letting Spencer haul him back up, spitting out salty ocean as he climbs back on the board at a new angle.

“That was new, Urie,” Spencer says, a hand along the back of his own neck, rubbing where Brendon’s hand just left.

Brendon laughs, laying down to paddle forward through the surf, head hitting against Spencer’s thigh for a moment.

“I’m assuming you don’t mean the falling into the ocean part,” he says, letting Spencer follow him back into shore.

“No,” Spencer says, voice almost not loud enough for Brendon to hear, “you do that a lot.”

Brendon hit’s the shore line faster than he expects, still on his stomach and Spencer stands up next to him.

“The other thing, though,” Brendon says, “the new one, I kind of want to do that a lot, too.”

Spencer reaches down and presses his knuckles into Brendon’s scalp, twisting.

“As long as you do it more gracefully than you fall of your board, I’d be down for it,” he says, and Brendon grins up at him, a little squinty and pleased, falling face first into the sand at Spencer’s feet as a wave crashes over his head, everything going bright and rushing quiet for a second until Spencer’s hand finds his beneath the surf and tugs


End file.
